
POEMS 

of the Soil and Sea 



BY 



CHARLES A. WAQNER 



PS 3545 
.fl3 P6 
1922 
Copy 1 




Class T ^^^^S 



Rnnk A3 F(^ 
Copyright ]J? 



CQE^OftlGin' DfiPOSm 



POEMS 

of the Soil and Sea 



THE ALFRED A. KNOPF PUBLICATION PRIZE 
WAS OFFERED BY MR. ALFRED A. KNOPF OF THE 
CLASS OF 191 2 COLUMBIA COLLEGE TO UNDER- 
GRADUATES WHO SHOWED PROMISE AS WRITERS. 
THE PRIZE CONSISTS OF THE PUBLICATION EACH 
YEAR OF THAT BOOK BY AN UNDERGRADUATE 
WHICH IS JUDGED MOST DESERVING OF THE 
HONOR. 

1921 COBBLESTONES by Da<vid Sentner 

1922 POEMS OF THE SOIL AND SEA 

by Charles A. Wagner 



POEMS 

of the Soil and Sea 

By Charles A. Wagner 




New York 

Alfred • A • Knopf 

1922 



COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY 
ALFRED A. KNOPF, Inc. 

Published, October, 1922 

.6^ 



T^2 






^^.■..9. 



> 



©aA686728 

Set up and printed ty the Vail-Ballou Co., Bingliamton, N. Y. 

Paper furnished hy W. P. Etherington & Co., New York, N. Y, 

Bound ly the H. Wolff Estate, Netc York. N. Y. 



MANUFACTURED IN TIfE UNITEP STATES OF AMERICA 



NOV 10 "22 



DEDICATED TO 

JOHN ERSKINE, 

Poet and Priest of Life, 
In the Academy . . . 



Thanks are due the editors of The Mea- 
sure, The Nomad, The Pagan, Munseys, 
The Morningside, The Bellows Falls 
Vermont Times, The American Intercol- 
legiate Magazine, The New York Trib- 
une, and other periodicals for permission 
to reprint some of these poems. For per- 
mission to reprint ''The Alarm'' thanks 
are due the publishers of the College An- 
thology for 1921-22. 



PROEM, 

To My Wife 

RUTH WARTERS 

Vision of visions, 
Love of all love, 

Beautiful poem 
Sung from above 

Somewhere and always 
Song was your soul; 

You are the poet, 
Endless the scroll. 



CONTENTS 

I All Summer Have I Sat in Thought, i 

II From the Heart of the Tender Sparrow, 5 

III Regret That I Have Known You, 7 

IV Look, Love, How the Gentle Moon, 8 

V Into the Heart Returns the Fallen Flower, 
9 
VI Why Do I Love You? 10 
VII A Child, Playing, 11 
VIII To-day There Is a Warning in the Wind, 
12 
IX Histories Do Not Speak of the Green Riot, 

13 
X Here on the Open Highway Once I Trod, 
14 
XI When Life Has Had Enough of Me, 16 
XII Do Not Think That I Shall Hide, 17 

XIII How the Thought of You Is a Coming in, 

18 

XIV Long Did I Wonder at the Carpet of Blue, 

19 
XV I Take the Road That Leads Me There, 
21 
XVI Magic of White Sunlight on Green, 23 
XVII Moments Are Tiny Fireflies, 24 
XVIII Last Night There Lit Upon My Bed, 26 
XIX Shadows Have Music Too, and Shadows 
Know, 27 



XX I Will Turn Back an Hour, To-day, 28 
XXI Show Me the Lips That Know No Hour 

of Song, 29 
XXH Each Year Ten Thousand People Ride, 30 
XXHI Two Farmers Lived in a Small Town, 31 
XXIV Dead Summer Leaves Upon the Forest 
Floor, 32 
XXV My Soul Is a Purple Cavern, 33 
XXVI In the Quiet Valley, 34 
XXVII I Shall Be Turning Down Unending Lanes, 

35 
XXVIII I Pounded on the Iron Gates, 36 
XXIX When Strangely Still This Heart Shall Lie, 
37 
XXX The Years Shall Thunder By, 38 
XXXI A Tomb-like Silence Is Upon the Streets, 

40 
XXXII God Weaved a Tapestry, 42 

XXXIII I'll Have Music to Send Me Away, 43 

XXXIV I Shall Go Down to the Shore, 44 
XXXV I Remember a Yellow Butterfly, 46 

XXXVI The Town Where My Love Lives, 47 
XXXVII Cool Autumn Works No Changes Here, 49 
XXXVIII Far in Virginia's Eyes I See, 50 
XXXIX The Sudden Glimpse of a Faun, 51 

XL Faint Blossoms That Fade and Fall, 52 
XLI Whether I Go from This Eternal Vast, 

("RUTH"), 53 

XLII The Tall Men Run the Harbor, 54 
XLIII This Is the Sorrow That Returns to Me, 

56 
XLIV Always the Wave Turns Back Upon the 
Shore, 61 
XLV Over the Paleness of Your Saint-like Face, 

(•"Mother"), 62 



POEMS 

of the Soil and Sea 



All summer have I sat in thought, 

Burned my poor brain 

And, through lamps of stars 

Walked with the pain. 

''It is not long" my soul would say, 

"It is not long." 

Soon Autumn will come down to me 

Crazy with song, 

She will toe-dance with Gypsy brown feet 

Scratching, scratching along the street. 



I will not say these books are dead. 
With summer bending at my door; 
A poet's spirit walks by day 
When sunlight falls upon the floor 
And sings from off the shelf, and lives; 
O we are all God's fugitives ! 



All night the twinkling needles wove 
A diamond dress of dew, 

[I] 



An angry father, came the wind 
And tore the meshes through; 

But silently the Prince of Light 

Stole up and snatched the naked sprite ! 

4 

In the morning steadily 

I walk down the lawn, 

I thrust my bare feet through the dew 

Happy I was born. 

The quiet is a crystal cup 

That splinters when the birds are up. . 

5 

When I went out to call the cows, 
I crossed a field half plowed, 
And suddenly I found that I 
Had walked into a cloud. 

Like through a prayer I heard cow bells, 
A white dream covered me; 
I laughed, remembering how men 
Paint clouds in poetry! 



You will look upon me now 
As I cross the last small field 

[2] 



And never understand 

How I do not run to you, and yield. 

If clouds flew quickly to the sun 
O God would burn them, every one; 
Green are the leaves of passion's crown, 
But love win wait till they are down. . 

7 

Climbing over a county of hills 
Is no play, 

And when a man Is thirsty 
The rocks are In his way. 

The sun set In a harbor 
Of waters Ht like flame. 
But one must see a sunset 
For words are not the same. 

There was a farmer lad more kind 
Than sixty sunsets are. 
He'd rather fetch a mug of milk 
Than gossip with a star! 

8 

Before I even knew 

The blossoms died. 

The trucks came rumbling down 

Bulging barrels at the side, 

In which the apples ride. 

[3] 



They should float apples down the river 
That men might recognize the Giver. . . 



Little grains of dust 
Blown from foreign lands, 
Clinging to earth forever, 
These are my hands, 

O sad years in the house I know! 

dead leaves dropping on eternal snow! 

lO 

Through the barren orchard 
The sky is pale and sad, 
The trees are shriveled women 
Who once were color clad. 

1 try to tell them Spring will sew 
New blossoms that are white as snow. 



[4] 



II 

From the heart of the tender sparrow, 
From the throat of the careless jay 
One note was In the singing 
Of the flying-songs that day. 

From the breath of the early lilac, 
From its pink and purple flower, 
One worried whispered fragrance 
That told the Day, the Hour . . . 

And all the meadow-stations 
Stirred with the lovely word; 
Then suddenly the wind came down. 
Hid in the grass, and heard 

And over the hills the warning went 
To the Valley and violet Wood, 
The rustling of the big-tops 
Told that it understood. . . . 

From the sun on the dancing rivers. 
From the rim of the rising moon, 
Out of the liquid shadows 
One pastoral, one tune, 

[5] 



Over the sleepy meadows 

Into the trees it ran, 

Thrilling branch and blade and bird 

With one alarm: A Man! . . . 



[6] 



Ill 

Regret that I have known you 
Spring still blows . . . 
Forget that I have found you 
Like a rose . . . ? 

Nay ... I never shall forget 
That sweet smell — 
Only, I thought you freer, 
Wilder dwell. 

Stay — stay within your garden 
Planted well, 

I dreamed of riot-blossoms 
In a dell, 

I did not dream of gardens — 
(What a fate 
To lie a million ages 
Near a gate. . . .) 



[7] 



IV 



Look, love, how the gentle moon 
Wanders stately through the trees, 
And the little stars that trail 
Are like blossoms torn from these. 

We are blossoms of the sod 
Torn with stately hands from God, 
Taken from His eager bed, 
By His gentle fingers led 

And His ways are all too soon 
Those of stars that trail the moon. 



[8] 



Into the heart returns the fallen flower 
And none may see the broken pride 
That flows, except a heart that sprang 
From fallen flowers of the sunless tide. . . . 

I have found loveliness where sunlight thrills 
Quietly living ivy on a wall, 
I have seen violets reach above a field 
And toss their tragic faces daisy-tall. 

When these have fallen I alone may know, 
Each field, each farm, each cloud-swept bower, 
Into my heart the fallen blossoms blow, 
Into my heart returns the flower. 



[9] 



VI 

Why do I love you? 
Ask me why 
Slim reeds go reaching 
For the sky. . . . 

Why do I love you? 
Do I know 

What hidden dream makes 
Roses grow . . . ? 

I have the reason, 
Soul and mind 
And the far purpose 
Of the wind. . . . 

Why do I love you? 
Because I 

Can never tell you, 
That is why. . . . 



[10] 



VII 

A child, playing 

With its mother's fingers. . . . 

So too, O God, 

Do I cling to Your Song 

And seek Your beauty, 

Knowing, ah knowing 

That soon you too shall look down 

And smile. 



["] 



VIII 

Today there Is a warning In the wind, 
The dawn was not so sUken-lIght before, 
Today there Is a spirit warm and kind 
Waiting outside the sun-washed, eastern door, 
Who whispers: "Take your green and gold 

and blue. 
Painter of Life, take them along with you!" 



[12] 



IX 

Histories do not speak of the green riot; 
It is not the clamoring of a land or a people, 
Nor rifle-shots from a barricaded street. 

Each summer new sabers of green unsheath 
Their naked blades to the warm, golden air 
Under barrage of pointed tongues of flame. . . . 
Charging out over trails and tarry roads — 

And there is no loud report of victory 
When tiny searching fingers of the ivy 
Reach over a telegraph pole. . . . 



[13] 



X 

Here on the open highway once I trod 
When, in despair, I thought to find my God. 
I plucked the painted flowers from the ground, 
Laughed with the wind, answered its every 

sound. 
I ate my fill of berries by the road. 
Drank beauty from a cup that overflowed 
In tiny moments of unended joy 
So that the skies became a running boy 
Shouting against the hills of silent blue. 
And joy and I were one lad, that I knew! 

I flung my naked body in a lake 

And swam from shore to shore for swimming's 

sake. 
I slept beneath a catafalque of stars 
Until the morning with her colored bars 
Came like a rose-cheeked girl who never 

grieves. 
Came tip-toeing, blowing to my bed of leaves, 
Came from the warm and unastonished South 
To set her feeble kiss upon my mouth. . . . 
The road was inland with safe lamps glowing 
Like dim-lit harbors of sails soft blowing. 

[14] 



Alas! I do not tramp the highway more, 

For, once, as I passed by an open door 

I heard a young girl playing in the night, 

And when I saw her in the parlor light 

Her face was shining with a golden dream. 

Misty as sunlit vapor did it seem. 

And as I looked upon her tiny hands 

I saw the sunshine of a million lands. 

The keys were washing waters that the rain 

Drove out upon the sea in silver stain. . . . 

Her mother came, and took the girl to bed. 

Blew out the lamps until the house was dead 

The night — it hung its colored stars, and yet 
There was a light more beautifully set. 
The wind — it was so warm and sweet, and yet 
There was a sweeter one that I had met. 
The road — it was so good to me, and yet 
There was another road I can't forget. 



[15] 



XI 

When life has had enough of me 
And I am done with breath 
From silent skies and bending sea, 
I shall not dream of death. 

I think if Autumn leaves can blow 
Into an open sky, 
And have a dance or two to show 
Before they curl and dry, 

I who have known the blue-bird's cry 
And tree-top song, I shall not die! 



[i6] 



XII 

Do not think that I shall hide 

Or God shall keep me at his side, 

For, restless as I was before 

So shall I be f orevermore, 

And I shall laugh when winds annoy 

The peace of tree-tops into joy. 

I shall be where rain-drops fall 
Along the ivy of the wall, 
And if you care to come to me 
Tap on the bark of any tree. 
And I shall hear you from above 
And know you haven't ceased to love. 

Do not bring me wreaths of flowers 
Or pray beside this Httle mound 
For, with the first warm driving showers 
I shall have risen from the ground ! 



[17] 



XIII 

How the thought of you Is a coming in 
From hot fields when the marble hours begin, 
The cool, cool hours of evening when the 

brown 
Tree shadows turn their western faces 

down. . . . 
How the thought of you is a sweet cool drink 
Out of the glistening well or at the brink 
When stars are in the bucket ag you pull; 
I look in your heart and emerge brimming 

full. . . . 



[i8] 



XIV 

Long did I wonder at the carpet of blue, 

to plunge far down Into its mystic waters 
And drown in a glory of dew. . . . 

From somewhere came moving white-robed 
sails 

And raced their changing shallops across the 
inverted sea 

Stretching and urging in scattering splen- 
dor. . . . 

1 knew not which would win, for all were 

equally great and fleet. 

But soon one lone sail remained of all the con- 
test. 

One did not part and melt, like snow that 
falls in the sea. . . . 

One rolled on and on, breaking each delicate 
fleecy thread 

Until the race was won 

And the medallion of gold. . . . 

I must helplessly cling to earth 

And the young, frail, new-budding trees 

[19] 



Sway In despair with me. . . . 

We have a common desire, 

We would roam the silken waters of the misty 

Heavens, 
Rootless and branchless, and at last be jfree; 

On Earth the smallest sparrow 
Brings Jealousy. . . . 



[201 



XV 

I take the road that leads me there, 
The quiet woods I know, 
No feet but mine have ever trod 
That pathway gemmed with snow. 

All year the sun sleeps on the stones, 
The air is still and mild. 
There is a trembling quiet like 
The dreaming of a child. 

Here sorrows do not ever walk 
Nor pain nor any fears, 
There's never a time the quiet woods 
Have failed to dry my tears. 

Only once there was a stirring 

In that silent place. 

In wonderment I stood and watched 

The storm clouds spread and race 

Through tree tops maddened with the wind 
And furious and wild; 
There was no quiet then, no dream 
Resembling any child. 

[21] 



Somewhere I knew another's heart 
Had caught unconquered woe; 
Tossing of quiet woods, and storm, 
Melted eternal snow, 

These are not written for the fields; 

Rage in a quiet wood, 

O I have read your lips at last, 

O I have understood! 



[22] 



XVI 

Magic of white sunlight on green 
Is over now. . . . 
Only whispers of blue between 
The grass, and how 

A sky brings home her tired flocks 
From crimson halls. 
As Night takes down her jeweled box 
Silver dust falls. . . . 

But you have laughed with love, you seem 

Out of Time's care. 

And moon-white roses in a dream 

Are not so fair. . . . 

All June lies sunken, with her skies 
And her bright bars; 
Are you an angel, that your eyes 
Are pools of stars . . . ? 



[23] 



XVII 

Moments are tiny fireflies 
Signalling to my soul, 
Flickering fireflies 
In the twilight. ... 

The muscles of a bird's throat 

Moving In song, 

The faint whispers of a lost love 

Which say: "I have time to linger 

In your dream, and you may touch me yet a 

while — 
Until your own cry wakes you, you may touch 

me" 
Moments are snowy branches 
Broken by the winds. . . . 

O the sunspilling sweeps 

Of a church organ, 

O the flying journeys 

And the singing meadow-maidens 

And the endless procession 

Of warm Beauty. . . . 

[24] 



Give me such voice that I 
Might split the sky; 
Out of the storm and thunder 
Does music fly. . . . 

Your fires, O Soul, are moments 
Kindled with pain; 
Tears do not ease desire 
Nor can the rain. . . . 



[25] 



XVIII 

Last night there lit upon my bed 

A pale blue spectre, cold and dread. 

I thought it wore a mantle new 

And heavy with a crystal dew. 

Its feet and hands like elfin thieves 

I knew had been a'chasing leaves. 

It had a way of giving pain 

And smelling sweetly of the rain. 

It whispered with its purple lips 

Of flying foam and tossing ships 

And bending over me, it said: 

"The summer that you love is dead! . . 

Dawn will not step across the dew 

With pink-white toe or velvet shoe, 

Nor will blue blossoms strew the air. 

Or golden flowers toss their hair 

Again . . . the trees will all be bare. 

And winds will hold loud meetings there ! 



[26] 



XIX 

Shadows have music too, and shadows know 

Passion and sensibility and pain. 

Half of my life across the snow I throw 

In shadow. ... It shall dwell with me again 

When Spring, the blossom-haunted, walks the 

earth. 
Blessing the meadows with a song of birth. 



[27] 



XX 

TO R. W. 

I will turn back an hour, today 
I will steal down a lovely way 
Hazy with gold and tender blue; 
In fancy I will walk with you 
Again. ... It will be good to see 
Your face lit up with melody. . . . 

In the low hills your laughter rang 
Against white fog — . Always you sang 
With simple meaning, yet apart — 
You sang the beauty of your heart, 
And in your eyes there was a gleam 
Of light half militant, half dream. 

The book that we had partly read, 

The dead sage slumbers still, the red 

Leaf keeps the page, and drooped and dry 

A trembling violet tries to die. 

Life Giver, touch again this flower 

With Spring . . . ! 

I will turn back an hour, 
And in the everlasting dew 
Fancy will let me walk with you. . . . 

[28] 



XXI 

Show me the lips that know no hour of song 
When sunlight falls on green with hot embrace, 
When violets hide, and daisies bravely throng, 
And cushion-clouds are trailing in blue 
space. 

The year flaunts green and gold and blue to turn 
With laughing eyes our semblance from the dead, 
And summer gathers these to flame and burn 
In tireless vigil, like a torch of red. 

O Spring's a little girl with pink-white toes, 
But Summer thrills the fingers of a root, 
'Her lips are smoother than the dewy rose; 
In her warm arms the trees toss down their 
fruit. 



[29] 



XXII 

Each year ten thousand people ride 

In summer to the country side, 

They come in silk and satin gown 

Treading the lovely woodland down 

So that a farmer lad must creep 

In shame behind his careless sheep, 

So that the stars rain in the dew 

A tearful silver retinue. 

So that the valley looking up 

With hotel lights within its cup 

Asks God for simple folk again 

Who take their bread and butter plain. 



[30] 



XXIII 

Two farmers lived in a small town 
With furrowed land a'sloping down 
The valley; both were giant men 
And could turn over ground for ten. 
Ploughing a field or pitching hay 
Was nothing more than so much play. 
The buzz-saws sang without a stop 
Down at the mill, when they would chop. 
Vermont snow storms went sweeping by 
Unheeded . . . their wood-piles were high. . . . 

But one of them, the one named Brown 

When chores were done, he would steal down 

A book or two, and in the light 

Of an oil lamp would read all night. . . . 

They say that he was seen to be 

Once in the County Library. . . . 

The other man named Roy is dead; 
Blue flowers grow above his head. . . . 
Brown's bed is overgrown with weed — 
Brown wrote a little book on "Seed", . . , 

[31] 



XXIV 

Dead summer leaves upon the forest floor, 
Oft, when your maples swayed contentedly, 
Proud with their burden, did your accents pour 
Blessed o'er me. . . . 

What Might am I, or by what fabled charm 
Given my feet to trample your long sleep? 
Yet would you bid me step in no alarm 
Soft, ankle-deep 

Into your bosom that has combed the wind. 
What though the sun, of bitterness in rain 
Leaving for tears, sweet sap of Faith entwined 
To flow again! 

Hushed in the holy stillness of your might. 
Yours is the charity of God. I see 
In your dry midst of fallen leaves that light 
He made to be. . . . 



[32] 



XXV 

My soul Is a purple cavern 

Open for them that pass, 

Flowers that life has relinquished, 

Violets smothered by grass. 

Wind in the hills, night forsaken 

Dawns all dewy with tears ; 

My soul is a purple cavern 

Heavy and sad as the years. 



[33] 



XXVI 

In the quiet valley 

The sun found gossip : 

'^Do you know" asked a brown blade of grass 

Of its green neighbor, 

"Do you know whether winter has passed?" 

"What is winter?" asked the green blade. 

Hill trees whispered something about a moon 
Taking the sky far off, 

And the truant sun said to the hill-flowers: 
"The moon shall come here searching for my 

secrets. 
But tell him nothing, I beg you" 
And she stole away over the mountains. 

When the moon with silver lips that night 

Whistled down to the flowers 

They were shut tight, 

Feigning sleep. 

A million fire-flies signalled to him — 

But he thought they were only 

Mocking the stars. 

[34] 



XXVII 

I shall be turning down unending lanes 
Of loveliness, and singing as I go, 
The quiet flowers shall consult the wind 
Of this strange wanderer who dares to know 
The secret of God's tranquil ways below. 

I shall be asking of the wind no tune, 
Nor of the roadside flower any sweet, 
Only my voice shall tell my soul's power. 
Only my heart shall quicken at His feet 
Where poets long before found strange retreat. 



[35] 



XXVIII 

I pounded on the Iron gates 
That open from within, 
A voice in that strange sanctum said: 
"You may not enter in." 

I pounded harder (feet and hands) 
Restless as a dream, 
I shouted through the spiked bars 
That muffled every scream. . . . 

Dawn came like peace, the bars grew soft, 

The gateman's bolt undid. 

The gates fell forward on the path 

As every cross-bar slid. 

My face, so wet with young love's tears 
Turned not from easy flight 
But, like a cave soul given wings, 
Stepped gladly in the light. 

I might have been more hesitant. 
The years ahead shall say. 
Walls do not yield as easily 
To love, as to decay; 
A gate moves but one way. . . . 

[36] 



XXIX 

When strangely still this heart shall lie, 
For all the roving blue 
Of some warm, deep Autumnal sky, 
I shall not think of you. . . . 

When grasses seek to grow above 

A white, consenting brow 

And wonder-eyed, the daisies shove 

Unseen,' I may know how 

In darkness to despatch my love 

This way or that. . . . How can I now. 



[37]; 



XXX 

The years shall thunder by, 
The years of pain; 
Sorrow shall beat her wings 
In vain — in vain, 

For Time's the fleet shadow 
Of a white cloud. 
That does not cross the hill 
Till the field's plowed. . . . 

And like a plow in Spring 
Laughs to the sod, 
Time floats across the sky 
To smile on God. . . . 

Deep is the furrow made ! 
The daisies droop 
Under the turning earth 
As martyrs stoop. 

To print a clean, white kiss 
Upon Earth's hand. 
And then go down and dream 
Their Purple Land. . . . 

[38] 



The years shall wander by, 
The years of pain, 
And Love shall have her day 
Again — again. . . . 



[39] 



XXXI 

A tomb-like silence is upon the streets ; 

The hours, so dark, will soon be sprinkling 

gray. . . . 
Dead world! why is there no completed peace. 
But struggling sleep-sounds begging dawn 

away . . . ? 
I hear my soul astir, I feel it speak 
Somewhere on some cool ship where I lie 

stretched, 
Where Love is one with Peace, and each is 

rest. . . . 
Along whose dreamy sails my life is sketched 

A heavy wagon on some far-off street 
Is jolting slowly across the cobble-stone; 
Then come the ringing heels on the flint walk 
That never failed their nightly measured tone, 
And now the window-purple flits within, 
I see it rolling balls of mist, before 
The struggle with the midnight in my room 
To leave the early light upon the floor. . . . 

Come, purple banners of the silken dawn, 

[40] 



Lighter than kisses . . . come with dew-sweet 

lips 
To heal in coolness these, my fevered eyes 
(White ships are whispering to eager 

skies. . . .) 
Until I see the slanting sails of ships 
Buoyant and bravely bending out to sea 
Again. . . . Bravely and boldly I will go. . . . 
I do not know what lands may greet me 

then — ? 
My one joy is I do not want to know. . . . 



[41] 



XXXII 

God weaved a tapestry 

Of pink coral and green, 

And spread it over the sea, 

But your radiance has faded it; 

Which is more than the sun could do, 

Or the marring prows of ships. . . . 



[42] 



XXXIII 

I'll have music to send me away, 

O the winds 

With their soft violins that will play, 

And the trees 

That will stir like a chorus that day. . . 

No processions of people will crowd 
At the pier, 

There'll be nothing discordant and loud 
As I near. 

But my soul will go bravely and proud 
Without fear 

Like a ship that slips noiseless away 
Down the bay. . . . 



[43] 



XXXIV 

I shall go down to the shore 
And watch the sea-gulls there, 
And all the wavy waters 
Shall glisten in my hair, 

I shall walk into sunsets, 
Open fires of the West 
And ease my heart with beauty 
That lets me lie and rest. . . . 

Better than the cold kisses 
Of your unyielding mouth 
Shall be the wind upon my face 
That thrilled the tropic South, 

And sweeter than your singing 
Shall sing the slanting rain, 
Because hers is a melody 
That does not end in pain. 

When rain collects her music 
And steps down from the sky 
She kisses all the flowers 
And sets white clouds to fly, 

[44] 



She sprinkles all the meadows 
With perfume from above ; 
The rain knows more than you do 
Of music and of Love. . . . 



[45] 



XXXV 

I remember a yellow butterfly 

Searching along Broadway 

For some meadow. 

But my pity vanished 

When it fluttered by a florist's window 

And would not even look in. . . . 



[46] 



XXXVI 

The town where my love lives 
Is a quiet town, 
The trees wait and listen 
And no sound comes down, 

The streets have a holy 
Heavenly whiteness, 
Often I've seen there 
God's torch of brightness. 

How the wind saddens 
When it runs there. 
Finds nothing but petals 
And green willow hair, 

Finds no voice but sunlight 
Ready to sing. 
Uttering notes that 
The higher winds bring. 

I take my chair there 
And sit by her door. 
And all that my love sings 
I know from before. 

[47] 



No one can see her, 
White is the door, 
Green is the carpet 
Spread on the floor, 

Golden the windows. 
Easy the knob. 
Turning upon the 
First httle sob. 

Only I see her, 
Only I hear. 
Night does not fill me 
With any fear, 

The town where my love liei 
Is a high town. 
Only the living 
Ever come down. 



[48] 



XXXVII 

Cool autumn works no changes here, 
She does not paint green leaves to red, 
Ah no, these things have vanished now, 
The Indians that once danced are dead. 
The white, broad days of sun have fled. 

A squaw with earthen bowl would sit 
All day upon this spot and be 
Content with blue warmth In the air, 
And white birds flung themselves to sea 
Like stitched upon a tapestry. 

There was a whisper In the roar, 

The sunless street swarmed gray and old, 

"Peace will not soon return again" 

The ancient roots and Ivy bold 

Their million hovering spirits told. 

Dreaming of amber and of gold. 

And suddenly a calm came down 

And tired peace began to creep 

Into the tortured places where 

The noises had gone down most deep; 

I thought I heard the weary arms 

Of Indians, stirred in troubled sleep. . . . 

[49] 



XXXVIII 

Far In Virginia's eyes I see 
The shining wealth of Italy 
Upon whose diamond hills the sun 
Plays with the sea In unison. 
Those eyes are tales that sailors tell 
When ships are mounting in the swell, 
And in her dream-lit hair, lost showers 
Of ancient gardens store their flowers. 

Is it as well that she live here 
Pale and contented as the beer 
Which her old father drinks at night 
Long after turning down the light? 
What of the wine her lips once knew, 
The purple grapes her fathers grew? 
What of the marble of her arms 
Swaying in pastorals and psalms, 

What of her ashen colored toes 
That are ten pearls in slender rows? 
Ah, she is far too rare and fine 
For hanging clothes upon a line ! 

[so] 



XXXIX 

The sudden glimpse of a faun, 
Your slender body, and your eyes, 
Are these things beautiful 
Like the beauty of quiet waters 
Taking on dawn? 

Beauty of quiet waters 

Taking on dawn, 

How shall I tell your beauty 

Above body or eyes 

Or a sudden faun? 



[SI] 



xxxx 

Faint blossoms that fade and fall 
Are the fading tattered clouds, 
And bitter is the wind on the Connecticut; 
Soon night will come, 
And the young stars will tell stories, 
Their eyes glistening with tears of laughter, 
But the older ones will stand by and listen 
Unmoved. . . . 

Until the fields have begun their twilight 

dreams, 
Until the tall corn has stopped its playing. 
Until the lamps are lit in the tiny farm-houses 
And the young boys have brought in the cows. 
The sunset lingers. . . . 



[52] 



XXXXI 

RUTH 

Whether I go from this eternal Vast 
Into another, it is one to me. 
It was enough, at flight, that I could dip 
My wings in rhythm to the song of You, 
Enough that, when the storm was at its height 
And for the first time, cold winds sought me 

down, 
It was your lovely breast, your summer heart, 
That made my soul a nest, and gave me 

warmth. . . . 

Our Youth which lives beyond the touch of 

years. 
Stained with the wine of Music without end 
Is Dream Eternal. ... I recall the day 
As clearly as hill-trees painted against 
A sky of marching clouds . . . still do I say 
Love is for Silence and for Prayer ... we 

lie 
Above the houses with their mortal noise. 
Wrapped in the peace God sends to Love and 

Hills 

Above the shadows . . . still in one embrace 
I take you with me to Eternity! . . . 
[S3] 



XXXXII 

The tall men run the harbor, 
They stand before the wheel 
With lifted faces that the sky 
Took centuries to heal 

Of paleness, for the land is lean 
And men find burdens there, 
But the sea will toss her cargoes 
Easily In the air. 

The small men walk and talk and walk 
But never do a thing, 
The tall men curl the ropes to deck 
And as they work they sing. 

The harbor likes tall men to sing 
More than the green ocean, 
(Harbors and their lamps are altars 
Where ships come for devotion.) 

The small men keep the long long lists. 
They keep them straight and neat, 
But the tall men keep the harbor 
And kneel down at its feet. 

[54] 



The small men sit and count and count 
And never sing at all, 
And yet they seem to know the sea 
And how the whistles call. 

There is a prayer in the tide 
Which only tall men hear, 
The tall pines know it just before 
A storm approaches near. 

And sometimes in a morning field 
A word comes down from God 
And only the tall, thin daisies 
Will understand and nod. 



The tall men run the harbor. 
They stand before the wheel 
Like singing priests; their voices are 
Cathedral organ-peal. . . . 



[55] 



XXXXIII 

I 

This Is the sorrow that returns to me 
Always when I have been away from you, 
Beautiful sea,; God's book of holidays, 
Turning white parchments under lamps of 
blue. 

Let me not walk the grainy lands too long, 
For my heart fills Itself with dust and death. 
And pallid streets, and cities, and brown roads 
Lead me but back again to your brave breath. 

There Is a path that does not ever end 
Where earth paths end, in flowers eased with 

dew, 
There Is a silent trail no traveller 
Has stumbled on, where no bee ever flew. 

There is a journey that is never done, 
There is a brook whose sound no pebbles play, 
This Is the sorrow that returns to me,' 
This Is the weeping tears can not allay. 

[56] 



II 

You who have found the valley and the hill, 
How I should like to be of you once more, 
Who, tired or timid of the trees and flowers, 
Make a soft bed upon the forest floor. 

Bright are the hills at dawning, bright and still 
The steaming valleys in the quiet morn. 
And on the hillsides bloom the violets — 
Light-headed, girlish flowers, million born. 



[57] 



Ill 



This Is the sorrow that returns to me, 
Always my heart Is crying with that pain, 
There Is no ending of the wave, no shore 
That does not lead me back to you again. 

If I have known your beauty, you have robbed 
For that sweet treasure, all my ancient rest, 
The proud, swift joy of plowing up a field, 
The harvest glow of faces In the west. 

The silver morning wind, the start of rain 
Among the trees, the crow's call In the sky. 
The grass-enchanted hillside where sleep comes 
Like the coming of a small butterfly. 

Rain sweeps the decks with foaming, angry 

fear. 
There Is no fireside shelter for a crew; 
This Is the sorrow that returns to me. 
Beautiful sea, when I am thrilled with you! 



[58] 



IV 

Aching and tired, a ship crawls into port 
With crumpled sails, like a torn butterfly. 
Pinned to a post she lies, and when the sun 
Warms her, and soothes her pain, she does 
not cry 

As one too young for burdened conquering; 
She rears her head, shakes off the ready tear, 
Breathes of the harbor till her wings are full. 
And seeks your arms again, forgetting fear. 



[59] 



Where Is the laughter of your early promises 
That tore my easy love from earth to you? 
Where Is the hill that hides you from my heart, 
Where Is the passion that your rhythm grew? 

If I could find desire In your eyes, 
If I could touch your lips, my soul would rest, 
But In your wanton love there Is no goal, 
In your embrace a darker dream is pressed. 

Your eyes are sunken caves of bravery, 
Ybur lips are dead fires after long, long rain; 
This Is the sorrow that returns to me, 
Always my heart Is crying with that pain. 

If I could catch your laughter In my ears, 
If I could bind your bosom to my heart! 
This Is the sorrow that returns to me. 
Always that fearful dream will not depart. 



[60] 



XXXXIV 

Always the wave turns back upon the shore 
After long days of open sea and sun, 
Stretching wide arms on warming sands once 

more 
To feel the magic of oblivion, 

For though the riding seas are crowned in gold 
And toss their changing sides in deep delight. 
There are no sands for rest, no shells to hold, 
No songs to play along the beach at night. . . . 

They say the wind is made of air and foam; 
I think the wind is God's compelling hands 
That send the sailor to his island home 
More eager than dull waves on glistening 
strands. 



[6i] 



xxxxv 

MOTHER 

Over the paleness of your saint-like face 
Let no pain mar that tiredness and grace 
Which none may understand save those who 

race 
Timeless and poet-wise and music limbed. 

Over your eyes some Heaven unbedimmed, 
Mounting new angels of your Godlike Good, 
And on that forehead white with solitude 
Let no sorrow again be understood. 

You are my dream, my book of God, my song, 
In your sweet soul my poems all belong. 



[62] 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

018 394 585 3 



>- 



POEMS 

of the Soil and Sea 



BY 



CHARLES A. WAQNER 



